BIANCAHEARDTHEwords but could not believe she had. They had come out of nowhere, and brought a shock so great it had frozen her solid. All she could do was stare at her uncle. Completely silenced.
Then she heard another voice speak. Luca’s.
‘Matteo—’
Dimly, Bianca could hear the difficulty with which he was speaking, and as he continued, not faltering but laboured, her eyes went to him. He, too, had shock written hard across his face. Every feature stark.
‘That is an…unexpected suggestion.’
She saw him take a breath, as if air was urgently needed, then heard him forcing himself on. Forcing his voice into a lighter pitch. And as she heard his words, she understood why.
‘Marriage is a big step,’ he said.
She heard an injection of what she perceived to be twisted humour in his tone, and she understood why, and what he was doing.
‘Perhaps—’
But Matteo’s voice cut across his. ‘It’s the only way,’ he said. ‘Marriage!’
Bianca heard the urgency in her uncle’s voice, the fear. Impulsively, she spoke, pressing the thin fingers of his hand still holding hers.
‘Zio Matteo…’ She, too, tried to make her voice light, yet warm and sympathetic as well. ‘This is…well…quite a surprise—’
She found herself glancing across the table at Luca. His expression was still frozen, and he was not looking at her but at Matteo. A mask had come down over his face—she could see it.
‘You must give us time…’ she went on, addressing Matteo, taking a breath herself, knowing she needed to. ‘You must give us time to…’
Her uncle’s eyes filled with anguish. ‘Thereisno time! Oh, my dear child, how else can I make sure you are safe when I am gone? I must know…know…that Luca will take my place and keep you safe.’
Luca’s voice came again, and it sounded as if he’d found something to attach himself to. ‘Matteo, if you want me to be a trustee for Bianca, then of course—’
Had she heard something in his voice as he said her name? Something that had nothing to do with the excruciating absurdity of the moment? It didn’t matter whether she had or not, because her uncle was cutting across him again. This time his free hand slashed angrily.
‘No!It is not enough, Luca! Only marriage will keep her truly safe—permanently safe!’
His eyes flashed from Luca, to Bianca, and back again, and Bianca felt her hand squeezed tightly, almost to the point of making her flinch with the pressure.
‘Why do you object? Why do you make difficulties?’ asked Matteo. ‘It is so clear—so obvious—the only solution! Theidealsolution! Both of you are so dear to me! And marriage will make you dear to each other!’
The anguish, the urgency and the desperation in his voice was not lost to her—how could it be? And she saw his features contort. But even though she saw it, she could not feel it. Instead, a hollowness was filling her. There was a gaping gash inside her, slashed open by knives that had never lost their sharpness, sheathed though she had tried to keep them down the years.
She heard Luca speaking yet again, and now his voice was notfauxlight,fauxhumorous, but soothing, emollient. Placatory.
‘Matteo—you have sprung this on us. Be reasonable and let us have time to…to assimilate what you have said. It is a lot to take in…’
She could see that Matteo was going to speak again, his face working painfully. But Luca was holding up a hand. Not admonishingly, or warningly, but sympathetically.
‘I have heard what you have said, but Bianca and I—’
Again, she heard the gritted reticence with which he said her name, linking it to himself, and she knew why. Because it made those knives slashing out that hollow gash inside her slash yet again.
‘We need to…talk it through.’ And now the deliberate lightness was back in Luca’s voice. ‘Surely you can grant us that?’
He took another breath, shorter this time, and Bianca saw him reach for his glass of wine. His eyes, though, were watching Matteo, and hers went to him as well. He was not looking well at all. His colour was high, the agitation he had expressed was visible, and she could see the pulse at his thin neck throb.
With some difficulty she slipped her hand from his clasping grip, but did not remove it. Instead, she placed it—comfortingly, she hoped—on top of his where it lay on the polished mahogany surface of the table.
‘Dear Uncle,’ she said, making her voice warm and affectionate, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, the gash inside her. ‘Luca is right.’